


Soul Food

by Miss_M



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Eating, Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet, Fluff, Food, Post - A Dance With Dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 14:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9494684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_M/pseuds/Miss_M
Summary: Running low on coin, Jaime makes modest meals shared with Brienne an elaborate game.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This grew out of a brief scene in my fic [Where the Wind Takes Us](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3512888/chapters/7723355). I own nothing.

The stew was thick with mussels and pieces of crab and red onion, redolent of fennel and the sea. A ladleful of the world ocean in a rough clay bowl.

Apart from the purplish tinge of the stew in which crabmeat bumped against yellow mussels like a shipwreck’s detritus, it reminded Jaime of the sister’s stew one of his father’s cooks had used to make when Jaime, Cersei, and Tyrion were alone at Casterly Rock during Tywin’s Handship. His father frowned on such plain food as unbefitting a Lannister table. 

Listing all the things which his father would have found objectionable about his new life had become a favorite pastime of Jaime’s. 

Two spoons, one bowl of stew, one hefty hunk of bread, no longer warm so late in the day but still the brown color of fertile soil. The rich color alone made Jaime’s mouth water. 

They were always at least a little hungry these days. 

Few other guests sat in the common room in the hour before sundown. The Braavosi innkeeper had scowled in displeasure when Jaime had requested a meal for one as well as two spoons. Brienne had stared at the tabletop scored by daggers and polished by many an elbow, her cheeks heating like a forge under the innkeeper’s ireful glare. 

Jaime had looked the man in the eye and offered him a smile which showed more teeth than were strictly friendly. Even one-handed and dressed in travel-stained clothes little better than any sellword’s, Jaime succeeded in scrounging together enough of his old bearing ( _stand up straight and let the world see you for who you are_ , his father’s voice echoed in his ears, _a son of Casterly Rock_ ) for the innkeeper to think better of sloshing any stew over the rim of the bowl when he put it down with a protesting thunk before he waddled away and left them to their meal.

“We would order two bowls if our coin permitted it,” Brienne told the bowl of stew as though she could see the innkeeper’s thunderous mien in it.

Jaime nudged a spoon closer to her with his stump. “Get some of that down you while it’s hot, wench.”

Brienne let a heartbeat elapse before she did as she was told. “It smells good,” she said with a glance at Jaime, as though apologizing, her face naked with hunger.

Jaime grinned before he spooned up some of the delicious food. He put down his spoon with regret while Brienne hunched over the table, slurping, and reached for the bread.

He’d started this game out of sheer stubbornness. It had quickly become a way to pretend they were not forced by their dwindling means to stretch out every shared meal. Where food proved lacking, the game filled up empty bellies, or at least that was what they pretended.

Brienne raised her eyebrows as Jaime held the bread wedged between his stump and his chest and wrestled it in half. The half which came away in his hand was inevitably smaller than the rest. 

Brienne reached for the smaller piece when Jaime dumped both on the table, but he snatched it away. Dependable as the tides, she puffed out her cheeks in protest and hid her hands under the table like a child.

“Eat your bread, wench. I’m not waiting for you to wrestle with your pride, not while there’s hot food left in the bowl.” 

To demonstrate he was serious, Jaime bit off a mouthful of bread, stuck his half of the loaf under his armpit, out of Brienne’s reach, and spooned up more crabmeat and mussel than fennel-fragrant water out of the bowl.

“Fine, fine,” Brienne groused as she tore off a small, ladylike bite of bread, soaked it in the bowl, and put it in her mouth. 

The next piece of bread in her hand was bigger. She soaked it with great concentration, scooped up a bit of crabmeat with it, and held it out to Jaime over the bowl, careful not to let any of the precious stew drip on the table. Her scowl was fierce and brooked no argument. 

Jaime batted his eyelashes and licked his lips. Brienne kept scowling and holding out the morsel to him. For good measure, she pursed her lips in a way which was meant to convey stubborn intent. Mostly it made Jaime want to lean across the table, at the risk of dipping his jerkin in the stew, and kiss her.

He let Brienne put the food in his mouth. She did so swiftly and with grace, careful not to touch him except to deposit the morsel in his open mouth. Jaime had been known to flick her fingertips with his tongue, when she’d been too slow. 

He knew better than to nip her fingers, even in jest.

Jaime smacked his lips as loudly as he could. “Mmmm, the tastiest morsel,” he drawled.

“Silly,” Brienne muttered, her cheeks and neck awash in pale pink, a bit of fennel clinging to her lower lip, as she picked up her spoon and eyed what remained of the two chunks of bread with a scrupulous eye.


End file.
